


un vie solitaire - short story

by uhhemmett



Category: Original Work
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, London, One Shot, Prostitute, Short One Shot, Short Story, Writer, early 1900s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 04:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17594564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uhhemmett/pseuds/uhhemmett
Summary: I stand on this balcony at a home of a person I do not know, and inside the noise is overwhelming and irritating. However, this balcony has a marvelous sight, one that I do not often get to see from the height of the third story. If only I could photograph it, as a picture speaks a thousand words, but I am not a photographer nor do I know one. I am merely a writer, one that illustrates with words as best as he can, sometimes successful.





	un vie solitaire - short story

**Author's Note:**

> this work was initially inspired by a fanfic in the Born to Make (Art) History YOI zine called "La Pêche Miraculeuse" by sophiahelix, but quickly evolved into something different. to avoid potential spoilers, I'll put the elements inspired by that story in the end note.

He sipped the drink in his hand.

The drink was warm and bitter.

He wasn’t quite sure what the hosts of this party had mixed to make this drink, as he never fancied alcohol, nor was familiar with its tastes. He believed he could try to lift the pressures he’d been feeling recently with the clear remedy: intoxication and a social event. Within London, being an aspiring novelist living off of an editor’s job for a small publishing house was not an untroubled life to live, he rarely spoke to anybody excluding his boss and his landlady. A lonely life is one not worth living, he thought.

A party at the Hudson’s residence was not quite a place you would willingly want to be, littered with flamboyant artists of all trades, inebriated and bubbly at this time of night. He’d already heard Big Ben strike midnight likely half an hour ago, and for as much as he wanted to leave, he pushed himself to stay, pitched against a gaudy plastered wall across from a large window. Occasionally, a drunken person would stumble to him, mumble a few words and maybe tug on his sleeve before walking off, and he paid no mind to it. For any social interaction was beneficial to him, he supposed, or at least it should have been.

No, he did not know the Hudsons personally but being in a neighboring house to his rickety apartment, he was well aware of their parties. He would see drunken fools dragging themselves home from this house on his walk to work in the early hours of the morning. He never considered he would end up at one of these events; he wasn’t sure what compelled him to come in the first place. It wasn’t a place he enjoyed being, but his grimy diminutive rented room wasn’t much more pleasant.

Alas, he needed fresh air to cool his flushed face and calm his mind the way he thought the alcohol would. A small stone balcony hung outside a window in a bedroom with its door open across the room from where he previously stood. Weaving through boisterous strangers to reach there, he opened the door. The air was colder than it was when he arrived, likely bordering on freezing. He didn’t mind the sharp temperature, as it was immensely peaceful being elevated from the ground in London at night. Soft lights from houses and street lamps illuminated the roads and avenues, a bewildering sight that he wished he could capture. Perhaps he could do so by writing…

_I stand on this balcony at a home of a person I do not know, and inside the noise is overwhelming and irritating. However, this balcony has a marvelous sight, one that I do not often get to see from the height of the third story. If only I could photograph it, as a picture speaks a thousand words, but I am not a photographer nor do I know one. I am merely a writer, one that illustrates with words as best as he can, sometimes successful. I can hear a pair of dogs from separate houses communicating through barks down the road and smell the faint scent of a cigarette from below. The rancid odors of the streets are no more from this high, now I can truly enjoy the beauty of London at night. The street lamps glow a soft yellow that engulfs the people walking on them, I see a couple with their arms around each other, giggly and light. I see a homeless man with a bag walking alone, looking for a place to rest his head for the evening, and a horse carriage that I cannot view inside of but casts a similar glow to the surrounding brick of the roads. In the very distance, I can make out the London Bridge, against a dark sky riddled with stars. The stars are—_

He was interrupted by the sound of the door behind him squeaking, signifying someone was watching him. Out stepped a rather petite person with thin blonde hair and a very short dress and bold makeup.

“Mind if I join you?” the stranger asked, with a heavy French accent.

“You speak French?” he replied, in a similarly accented voice.

“Oui. Cigarette?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, in a language that felt comforting on his tongue.

As the stranger lit the cigarette, he couldn’t help but stare. This person was so out of the ordinary, someone he would love to write about and get to understand.

“What are you looking at?”

“I apologize, I cannot tell if you are a man or a woman.”

“A man, I suppose.”

“Why are you dressed like that if you are a man?”

A sharp glance from blue eyes pierced him. “I’m a prostitute.”

He wouldn’t say he was surprised, just startled, perhaps. He’d never imagined himself at a party that housed prostitutes.

“Perhaps you could request my services sometime?”

“No, no, as I do not agree with such.”

“Agree with what?”

“Selling yourself for the pleasure of others.”

“It puts food on the table.”

“But it could not be an enjoyable life to live, could it?”

“What do you do for a living, then?”

“I am a writer. Rather, an editor by day, aspiring novelist by night.”

“How is that novel developing, then?”

“Not very well, to be blunt.”

“I assume being an editor is only a step in your plan to become a published author, correct?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Working as a prostitute is only one step in my plan to live lavishly.”

“And how do you intend to accomplish that?”

“I am frankly not sure yet, but I have faith that one day I will live in a home as large as this one... Are you happy with your job?”

“No, it is quite exhausting and it collects little pay.”

“Then, in a sense, your life is no more enjoyable than mine.”

And with that sentence, the stranger opened the creaky door and disappeared into the same crowd from which arrived, leaving the writer alone to his journaling as he had been only mere minutes before. But he could not stop thinking once the stranger left, because was life in London without riches truly a place he wanted to be? Was a lonely life really one worth living?

He grasped the railing of the balcony, peering over at the grassy yard beneath him. He dropped his half-empty glass to see it fall three stories and then shatter, the feeling being satisfying and encouraging.

 

Thus he peered down and leaned in.

**Author's Note:**

> the elements that were inspired by "La Pêche Miraculeuse":  
> \- the warm drink  
> \- the party  
> \- the balcony scene  
> \- the era/time setting  
> \- the idea of a struggling artist  
> it is a very wonderfully written short story! here is the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17520368


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